"My son! I cannot see you—"
Brown came and took Kalman's place.
"Here I am, father," said Kalman, kneeling beside him and holding his two hands.
"Bid—my daughter Irma—farewell! She will be safe with you." Then after a pause he whispered, "In my pocket."
Kalman understood, found a packet, and from it drew the miniature of his mother.
"I give you this," said the father, lifting it with difficulty to his lips. "No curse with it now—only blessing—farewell—you have brought me joy—let me see her face—ah, dear heart—" he said, fastening his glazing eyes upon the beautiful face, "I come to you—ah! freedom!—sweet freedom at last!—and love—all love! My son—farewell!—my love!"
"Dear God!" cried Kalman, "Jesu, have pity and save!"
A smile as of an infant falling asleep played over the rugged face, while the poor lips whispered, "At last—freedom!—and—love!"
He breathed once, deep and long, and then no more. The long, long fight was done, the fight for freedom and for love.